


Cast Me Down, for Love is my Sin

by IneffableDoll



Series: Love is My Sin, and Thy Dear Virtue Hate [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Character, Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Asexuality, Dorks in Love, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Fluff, Happy Ending, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Romance, and a lot of Feelings, but it ends well because I don't like making myself sad, sonnets are involved, there's a little heartache
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:20:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22865452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IneffableDoll/pseuds/IneffableDoll
Summary: Crowley untangled himself immediately and stood in a rush. There was little in this world that he was sure of, even after all this time, and most facts in his confidence were all things relating to Aziraphale. And one of those things was this: if he stayed here any longer, he was going to kiss the angel and then he’d ruin everything again, again.In which there are a lot of emotions, a decent amount of eye contact, at least three words spoken at some point, and yes, a kiss.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Love is My Sin, and Thy Dear Virtue Hate [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1647307
Comments: 83
Kudos: 258
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens





	1. Aziraphale

**Author's Note:**

> “Let me not to the marriage of true minds  
> Admit impediments. Love is not love  
> Which alters when it alteration finds,  
> Or bends with the remover to remove.  
> O no! it is an ever-fixed mark  
> That looks on tempests and is never shaken;  
> It is the star to every wand'ring bark,  
> Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.  
> Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks  
> Within his bending sickle's compass come;  
> Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,  
> But bears it out even to the edge of doom.  
> If this be error and upon me prov'd,  
> I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.”
> 
> -Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116, in which Crowley played an evident hand.

Aziraphale could sense the eye roll from across the room. 

Crowley was bent deep into the sofa, glass of wine almost empty, and he looked at Aziraphale with an eyebrow perched high and a smirk plastered across his lips. It was basically his constant expression when drunk or even tipsy, sunglasses half slunk down his nose.

"You keep saying you’re alright,” Crowley was saying sloppily, “but I sincerely doubt that.”

Aziraphale looked nervously up at Crowley, back to the book, over to his own glass of untouched wine, and repeated the rotation. It was the third time Crowley had asked if he was okay that evening, and he’d given the same answer each time. The demon wasn’t going to let up.

“I’ve been…thinking,” Aziraphale offered.

“Always dangerous.”

“Hardly,” Aziraphale replied primly. “I just, rather, I have…well. You see…”

Crowley shifted, amusement dancing across his face. “What is it, angel?”

Aziraphale took a deep breath and, closing his book, let the words out. “Um, well…can I sit by you?”

This was clearly not anywhere near what Crowley had expected to hear, as he froze and quickly pushed his sunglasses up properly. “Of course, it’s your couch. Damn comfy, too.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help but laugh lightly at that. “You do realize you’re the only one who uses it, yes?” he asked as he stood and, leaving the full glass, sat carefully on the opposite end of the couch.

“Then, why keep it? All for me, honey?” The sarcasm in his voice was there – and heavy, especially on the last word – but Crowley still seemed to immediately regret opening his mouth and he downed the remainder of his glass in one go before magically refilling it, taking another swig without hesitation. 

“As a matter of fact.” Aziraphale cracked his book again, ignoring the expression that crossed Crowley’s face at the short comment. The fluttery tension in his stomach was not eased; in fact, it tightened.

It had been building. It had been building for an extremely long time, of course, but ever since the World Didn’t End, it had been building more rapidly.

It started simply, with tiny moments, tiny cracks in the wall they’d so carefully constructed and maintained. Moments like this, of sitting, not even talking, just existing near each other…these are the hardest, he thought.

There was a new awareness Aziraphale hadn’t had before that made every breath feel like a choice. In a way, it was. There was an undeniable girth of knowledge that encircled his wrists, his chest, and somehow tied the world together. They were on their own side, that much was clear. It could mean anything; there were no rules to what it had to be, no boundaries or barriers. It appeared unbidden: We can be anything at all.

The freedom was terrifying. Primarily because Aziraphale knew he would only last so long without a reason to deny what was happening, what had been happening. It had been happening for such a long time that to acknowledge it seemed almost too perilous, yet too apparent to ignore with each passing day, each passing minute. It was teetering dangerously on the edge of Aziraphale’s mind; a hopeful idea taking shape, yet unable to take the leap without the certainty of its wings.

Centuries went by, millennia, when even the decades and years and hours could change everything or nothing. It felt as though the universe was always changing, and Aziraphale was always a step behind it, a step behind the worldliness of the rapid surroundings. There was a comfort that certain people could find in the way time seemed perfectly content to go in one direction, at a jog or a sprint, a comfort Aziraphale didn’t understand.

They had changed since the Beginning, and so had everything, and yet, Crowley was still here, just as he had always been.  
“Angel?”

Aziraphale looked up. 

“You’ve been staring at that page for twenty minutes.”

“Have I?” He pulled himself out of the daze and, realizing he was clenching his fists and crinkling the edges of his beautiful first edition, he released his grip. Stretched his sore fingers slowly, methodically.

“Something on your mind?” Crowley ventured, clearly knowing the answer but not pushing too much. Ever patient, this demon.

Aziraphale nodded, slow and nearly noncommittal, but there.

Some sort of decision appeared in Crowley’s face and he put down his wine glass on the table. With an effort, he sobered up. He came out un-inebriated with a grunt and shaking his head.

“Never get used to it. Better than a hangover, though.”

Aziraphale nodded again, more of a reflex than a response, his gaze off in the middle distance.

“If you need to talk, I’m here,” Crowley offered, tentative with each careful word. He spoke like this often as of late, like he wanted to say more but didn’t dare to. Whatever the intent, a wave of guilt washed over Aziraphale and he tried not to notice Crowley propping his feet on the low table, leaning back into the couch’s pillows in thought-out, careful nonchalance. He was trying so hard to go slow.

“It’s really not a big deal.”

“Your acting is poor, angel.” Crowley laughed, betraying a nervous tremor. Aziraphale felt a pang, knowing that it was his fault Crowley was on-edge even if the demon wouldn’t admit it. “Even though you always were a fan of the theatrics.”

“As if you weren’t.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t see every play the original Globe ever put on. What was that, fifty years? Not a bad streak.”

“Forty-five,” Aziraphale corrected, relaxing slightly as they picked up this casual banter so easily. “And you forget that you had your hand in writing them.”

Crowley dismissed this with a wave of the hand, sinking low into the cushions. “Eh. No clue what you mean.”

“I’m sure the words ‘Shakespeare’ and ‘Sonnet Twenty-Nine’ mean nothing to you,” Aziraphale said without thinking.

“Hardly.” Crowley’s response was almost too quick, and his face flickered with something like shame. “Sonnets aren’t my jam. You know I like-“

“The funny ones, yes dear.” Aziraphale gave a tight smile, ignoring the creeping throb that was claiming his chest. The memory of the first time he’d encountered that particular piece rose before his mind, unbidden. It couldn’t have been more obvious had Crowley’s name been scribbled across it, and Aziraphale ached, remembering the words:

I all alone beweep my outcast state,  
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,  
And look upon myself and curse my fate…

He wanted to say something comforting, but nothing came to mind, and Crowley wouldn’t appreciate it anyway.

He felt that familiar stiffening in his chest then, that feeling he’d known for ages. The grip was strengthening. High in his throat, he was certain he’d choke. He couldn’t bear the way Crowley was looking at him, and the way he wasn’t. There was something there, lying between them, naked and cold. Truth, and his fingers held it close so none would see.

“I-I want…” Just one more word. It was a short one. Three letters.

“Is there some book you’re pining for?” Crowley said with a why-am-I-not-surprised air, appearing to have recovered from anything that had struck him with Aziraphale’s careless remark.

The thoughts were caught. Words wouldn’t do. For the first time, it truly felt like the entirety of human language, every alphabet since the Tower of Babel, had utterly and completely abandoned him, failed him, left him rotting.

Boiling over with fear, overshadowed with just enough hope, just enough willpower – he reached out and took Crowley’s hand, which was sprawled on the couch between them. It was a gentle grip, palm to palm. He was telling Crowley he could let go.

His heart was jostling in his throat, and Aziraphale barely dared to look up and see Crowley’s reaction.

Anything but disgust, anything but fear. Please.

Anything but anything.

But Crowley’s face was a shadow of an immense and foreign emotion, mouth agape slightly without disclosing quite enough to understand. It was a carefully orchestrated expression, one to keep the truth buried deep, a mask he was used to donning.

He hates it. Aziraphale was certain he hated it. But he couldn’t be sure, when Crowley’s thoughts hid in his eyes.

“I’m-I’m going to take off your sunglasses. Is that okay?” He hesitated, and when Crowley didn’t reply, he removed them slowly, careful not to touch his face.

Aziraphale had seen the first week of sunsets without much admiration. They’d been lovely, of course, but so was everything about this new world, and they simply didn’t stand out to him. The sky became a new color and faded into another new color. This happened throughout the day, really, and the subtle alterations of the atmosphere were of little interest when there was an entire world of life to learn.

After they met, it was different. Every time the sun went in a blaze of orange and yellow, sulfur-engulfed fury, Aziraphale thought of Crowley’s eyes.

Crowley’s eyes were burning.

Here, they were aflame, the pupils dilated and their amber hue taking on a tinge of yellow and red, as though one color was not enough. Aziraphale had seen many emotions in Crowley’s eyes before, but he didn’t know how to interpret this.

“I love your eyes,” Aziraphale murmured involuntarily, allowing the thought to escape him brashly, and Crowley flinched.

Aziraphale withdrew both hands immediately, dropping the sunglasses in his haste.

“I’m so sorry, dear.” His voice was overflowing, cracking, as he tore his gaze away from the searing eyes that painted his skin in afternoon tones. “I-I don’t know what came over me, just forget it. I shouldn’t have. Crowley, I apologize-“

But Crowley shifted quickly, and, in one smooth movement, he sat directly to Aziraphale’s left, long legs tucked under to the right. And he took Aziraphale’s hand, without a word, interlocking their fingers gently but firmly.  
“If it’ll make you feel better, angel.” His face was turned determinedly away. Aziraphale felt light-headed, the pressure of Crowley’s side easing into his own.

The demon was trembling.

“Crowley…”

His demon turned his eyes slightly to Aziraphale’s almost out of habit, it seemed, and they met. His demon’s eyes were clear, and in that snatch of a second before he turned away again, Aziraphale relaxed and leaned his shoulder against Crowley’s.

“Angel.” The word came from deep inside Crowley’s throat, a rumble like a soft roll of thunder, a meek caress of the mountains in a storm. Uncontained by space, restrained from within – the precursor to something loud. “Is this okay?”

Aziraphale’s mind was entirely blank at this moment. Six thousand years had passed by, the two of them too afraid to touch each other even in the friendliest of manners. Aziraphale barely knew what Crowley’s skin felt like, really. But now he knew that Crowley’s hands were soft, with little callouses on the fingertips, and honestly, Aziraphale couldn’t get past processing that bit of information.

He didn’t dare move, hardly dared to breathe, as though Crowley might slither away at the least aggravation. He nodded, slightly, barely, enough.

He didn’t know how much time passed before Crowley’s head leaned against Aziraphale’s shoulder, those wispy red locks tickling the angel’s throat. Aziraphale almost spoke before realizing Crowley had fallen asleep. How, Heaven knows. Actually, scratch that. But with the way his own heart could not stop pounding, Aziraphale knew sleep was an illusion – not that it was a habit he tended to indulge in, anyhow.

Crowley had stopped trembling and seemed to relax and ease into the position, allowing himself in sleep to let Aziraphale’s body take the weight.

Aziraphale smiled and gently removed his hand from Crowley’s to draw his arm around the lanky demon. The freed hand, of its own volition, grasped at the empty space Aziraphale’s hand had previously occupied, as though it had already become used to the pressure. The angel happily offered his other hand as tribute and Crowley’s hand accepted the volunteer.

Aziraphale smiled and pressed his cheek into the crown of Crowley’s head, possessed suddenly with the urge to kiss it.

He knew he wouldn’t, though. He needed Crowley awake, present, and willing the first time they kissed, and every time after. Always.

He coughed quickly at that thought, feeling the heat up his throat. Every time after. His expectations were a bit much, but somewhere deep inside he hoped that Crowley would want to kiss him more than once.


	2. Crowley

He wasn’t sleeping. How the Hell could he be?

His mind was racing like it never had before. Too many thoughts, too many moments. He reflected on every interaction he’d ever had with his angel, trying to understand if he’d misinterpreted something along the way – what had he missed? Where had he tripped up and failed to see?

Was this even happening?

The evening had been the same as always, hadn’t it? They’d gone out to dinner, come back to the bookshop, popped a cork. This had become almost routine in the time since, you know, all that stuff. Nothing unusual, just being there, the on-and-off conversations. Sometimes they talked about everything, sometimes nothing, and sometimes they didn’t speak at all, each in their own overlapping world.

It was comfortable. And maybe Crowley wasn’t entirely used to how comfortable it was, to just being there, and to not have to worry about what Heaven or Hell or God thought about any of it. No one was bothering them, and there was nothing left to be afraid of. All that really mattered, if Crowley was honest with himself – something he was doing with alarming frequency these days – all that really mattered was what Aziraphale thought of it. All of it.

Crowley hadn’t asked.

So, when Aziraphale had seemed particularly jittery, particularly agitated, Crowley had little trouble conjuring at least two hundred reasons why it was his fault. He, too, had become aware of the crumbled barriers, aware of the thinning wall between them.

If there was a problem, it wasn’t their bosses anymore, their creed or their past – it was him.

He tried to deflect it with jokes, deflect it with his usual charming aloofness (or what he hoped resembled it), but that ancient despair was eating at him, and Aziraphale wouldn’t look him in the eye.

Kick me out, then, he thought. Tell me you want me to leave, and I’ll fight it as long as I can, but I’ll go if that’s what you need from me.

“I’m sure the words ‘Shakespeare’ and ‘Sonnet Twenty-Nine’ mean nothing to you,” Aziraphale had teased then, looking almost the way he normally might.

Crowley almost cracked at that, almost quoted his own words:

With what I most enjoy contented least;  
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,  
Haply I think on thee…

And he tried not to remember how painful it was, Sonnet One-Hundred-Forty-Two:

Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate,  
Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving.

He almost wanted to tell him why those words had been written, about whom, and didn’t. Of course.

I go too fast for him.

And now, here they were. From the Beginning, it had always been Crowley who was first. He was the first to approach the angel on the gate, the first to speak. The first to start conversation after the next. The first to suggest what would become The Arrangement, the first to back out of taking sides – or rather, to create a new one. The first to break down, the first to break.

This was a first. For the angel.

The relief tasted of adrenaline. Aziraphale’s breath was even; he was fine. This was fine. This was okay, right? Holding hands (a hand that had totally and certainly not been placed just within reaching distance). Chilling on a sofa. Angel and a demon. Hereditary Enemies, Circumstantial…Somethings. Suddenly, Crowley wasn’t nearly drunk enough for this, and it took everything in him, every ounce of restraint, dignity, and withering self-respect to keep his face turned away, knowing what the knowledge of being too close would do to him.

He was holding Aziraphale’s hand, and he knew it was rougher than he’d expected before, rougher than he’d imagined. They were fingers accustomed to coarsely hewn pages, that knew the outline of a torn hardback, that carried a sword once, long ago, and recently. Hands that burned.

He couldn’t move past that knowledge, honestly, but it was the arm that killed him. Crowley was certain that, on a pain scale, the seizure of his heart when Aziraphale wrapped his arm around Crowley’s bony shoulders was at least a 9. In a good way, a way that a therapist would lift an eyebrow at.

The simple gesture was so affectionate, Crowley’s brain malfunctioned for a solid three minutes.

He didn’t even feel when Aziraphale put his other hand in Crowley’s, or leaned into his head, and every inch of contact felt like a broken rule, a line that shouldn’t be crossed. A mistake.

One he’d live with.

One he could handle, assuming his heart rate might slow down soon.

He stayed as still as possible, savoring every second. He’d look back on this as a memory to haunt him when it was over, inevitably too soon. For who knew how long it’d last? How long until the angel bolted, left him again with his heart cut open? How many times has it been now, he marveled, that I thought things might move forward…and I was wrong?

He was always wrong.

It was then that Aziraphale’s arm lifted slightly, and Crowley realized the angel was petting Crowley’s shoulder-length ruddy hair as though such a movement wasn’t going to utterly obliterate him. Much to his own dismay, his body involuntarily snapped his head up as electricity buzzed across his scalp at the tender contact. It was too much, yet not nearly enough.

“Oh!” Aziraphale let out a soft murmur of surprise and dropped his hand, but they were facing each other now, and Crowley could hardly see anything but blue, blue, melting in an angelic sea…

Their lips were inches apart.

Crowley untangled himself immediately and stood in a rush. There was little in this world that he was sure of, even after all this time, and most facts in his confidence were all things relating to Aziraphale. And one of those things was this: if he stayed here any longer, he was going to kiss the angel and then he’d ruin everything again, again.

“I-I’m sorry,” he found himself saying. “I shouldn’t, I’ll – I’m gonna go- you should- I’ll just-“ His hands brushed over the table quickly, nervously, hair falling in front of his eyes as he searched desperately for the sunglasses that he could hide behind, and everything could stay the same.

Aziraphale stood beside him, and abruptly, deftly, grabbed Crowley’s arm with a hold that reminded Crowley again that he was once a guardian of Eden. But it was forgiving, more of a guide than a demand, and a question.

The question was in those pale blue eyes.

Linger on your pale blue eyes…

Aziraphale’s hands, one gripping Crowley’s arm, and the other barely on his waist, were sure. 

He knew that expression; he’d made it before often enough to recognize the grimace, the shapes.

Aziraphale leaned in closer, leaving only a few centimeters of a gap, and the question was there, too. Asking Crowley to fill in the space.

He does.


	3. Aziraphale

It was not the kiss of a demon.

It was not rough, or forceful, or desperate. It was not a lustful kiss; it was not one filled with yearning. It was not the kiss of the tempter.

In all of Aziraphale’s dreams – which, let's be honest, were far from few – Crowley had been demanding, had been the snake in all the paintings in the way he’d pull and claim, and conquer. In the times the angel’s mind wandered, the demon’s kiss would be a bite, a sting.

He was wrong.

This was not the kiss of a demon, not the kind Aziraphale thought a demon would or could give. It was the kiss of the tempted, who had given in to an aching, impossible hope; a place for words unspoken. It was the kiss of butterfly’s wings; feathery, gentle, and light. A promise of hesitancy, a flicker of long-sought courage.

The kiss was tinted a shade he couldn’t name, an ancient color that did not exist and could not be reproduced or described, but one that meant love.

Aziraphale’s heart lurched, smacking itself into his own ribs, more reactionary to a whisper than any other kiss Crowley may have offered. This was not the kiss of a demon, perhaps, but of his demon, and he barely registered the possessive term. Never had Crowley been so…soft.

As a being supposedly of pure and ethereal love, he couldn’t recognize how this could overwhelm him so, but it did. 

And abruptly, somewhere in his brain where cognitive thought still managed to roam, he understood something. Something important, something new, yet also as old as the sun itself, perhaps even literally. 

Crowley was never going to say that he loved him. Those three little things that books of every era contained and savored, sometimes in more words and sometimes in fewer, for the language’s demands, could not cross this demon’s lips. Not unless stupendously drunk or otherwise mentally incapacitated, when it wouldn’t count.

But Aziraphale realized that Crowley had been telling him. He had told him so many times, over and over, hadn’t he?

You gave it away?  
Hello, Aziraphale.  
Okay, fine. That one’s on me.  
What are you doing locked up in the Bastille?  
Little demonic miracle of my own.  
Should I say, ‘thank you’?  
Let’s have lunch.  
We can go off together!  
To the world.

His ears rung, and reality felt distant, life itself is falling and burning into ashes.

Crowley had told him thousands of times. This was the first time he heard.

Their lips drew apart, after what was a mere handful of seconds, and yet, an entire lifetime, and a boiling sea of comprehension had the angel drowning. His center of gravity gave way, a twisting compass with a new north, and he understood.

But he wanted to say them. He needed to say them, because they were words and that was something Aziraphale could quantify. And he would say them as many times as he needed to for Crowley to know, for his demon to know, that of all the things on this wonderful, horrible planet, Crowley had always been his favorite.

So, he does. It is in the smallest whisper when Crowley’s eyes are still closed, when the distance was breached and not broken. They were hardly a wisp of three words, knotted together into one, a macramé of language that tangled in snags and dangling threads. It was so quiet, so gentle, surely Heaven nor Hell, nor even the Earth itself, could hear. God was not listening, because nothing else could exist when Aziraphale was drowning.

These are the words that the universe ignored. But Aziraphale’s universe is the only one who needed to hear them.


	4. Crowley

And he does, he does hear them, and the human phrase of “feeling like he was flying” wasn’t accurate. It felt more like he was Falling, swirling and spiraling in the air. He relinquished control and tossed himself onto the sporadic, untamed winds, and he knew he was Falling again. But it was good. This wasn’t the same as Falling, because he knew he would land and not crash, but it would have the same measure of impact. This was one of those moments when everything that followed would take on a different tone.

Aziraphale loved him.

Maybe he knew all along. Or at least, maybe he should have known. The signs were there, of course they were. To look Aziraphale in the eyes was to look into what love might be if it manifested, if it wasn’t something holy and beyond a demon’s touch. But Aziraphale was an angel, he was supposed to be everything he couldn’t have, so, of course, he too was a reflection of the love that could never be directed at him, but at everything.

An ache of centuries of regret welled, of almost and almost, of moments he never took the chance, of the decades that would pass without seeing the angel because somehow it hurt more to get too close, and he pretended his heart didn’t bleed when he dared to wonder where his angel had wandered without him.

He always hoped to see Aziraphale, in every bar, down every street. He searched every face he passed, yearning and dreading, yearning and dreading, so accustomed to the disappointment that when he was rewarded for his search, he could hardly contain the complicated dance his organs performed. For, no matter how ineffable, yes, ineffable it all was, their paths were a braid, tied up in three strings: an angel, a demon, and a thing they couldn’t talk about.

He wished he had. Oh, how he wished he had. But then, he wouldn’t have this moment, exactly as it was, and somewhere he faintly decided he had no regrets, after all.

The third string was taut, pulling the braid tighter.

Crowley felt his knees going out, in hindsight feeling entirely unsure how he remained standing as he was. Swooning was not quite the correct word for what lingered on the tip of his diminishing self-control, exactly, but it also wasn’t too far off.

He was sharply, distinctly aware of Aziraphale’s gaze, that piercing hope, like eyes scanning a crowd for a familiar face just as they had so long done, and the relief that came of discovering someone you knew was there all along.

Safe.

Safe in a demon’s arms, safe in an angel’s arms.

They were just arms.

And Crowley felt he should tell him, too. Let Aziraphale know he felt the same way, to allow himself another moment of vulnerability. Let him see you, he begged himself. Aziraphale deserved his honesty, even as it tore him apart. The words were on his tongue, but somehow, he hated to say them. To toss them out like nothing at all, barren and gray, like the sour words could truly capture his feelings. As though those three words meant anything, anything at all.

They didn’t.

But the tears were coming anyway, and his legs finally buckled, sending Crowley to sink to his knees on the floor, back half bent in a curling motion reminiscent of a coiled snake. He tried desperately to wipe away the tears on the balls of his wrists and succeeded only in wetting his sleeves. 

Pathetic.

This was not the suave demon Aziraphale loved. This Crowley was weak. This Crowley was so in love it spasmed like an old wound, a row of stitches in his side that never healed over properly, the stretching scar that tore open at a minor provocation. So horribly in love, he feared that to speak the fragile words would be to destroy them, him.

It took Crowley a moment to register the hug.

“It’s okay, dear. You don’t need to say it.” Aziraphale’s voice was low, close to his ear. “I know.”

Somehow, there was nothing better the angel could have whispered, and nothing worse. It meant everything, it said everything Crowley couldn’t. It was a declaration, it was a promise, it was so much more than language.

And it was permission.

Crowley couldn’t give it to himself, so Aziraphale did, and Crowley had permission to let the sobs overtake him as he pressed his face into Aziraphale’s chest, shaky hands grasping at the angel’s shoulders as he let himself cry.

These were the tears of tension released. The tears of a secret and hope that has been held back and hidden in a burning, smothering shame. How long had this feeling tensed in his jaw, lined his eyelids, tangled his hair, chilled his skin? The effort of hiding the very thing that gave you color was all-consuming.

And now, the effort was not needed anymore.

Demons didn’t cry. Weren’t supposed to, anyway. The first time he cried was when he Fell, but he hardly remembered (or refused to). The second time – not including an errant tear here and there – was in this same spot, aflame like his soul as he cracked and shattered. That horrible moment when all was lost because Aziraphale was lost, and the stars faded.

No one had been holding him then, comforting him, no one gliding a hand gently in rotation on his upper back like caressing a child.

No one had cared then.

It felt awful, awful to cry. But it didn’t hurt as much with Aziraphale there, and the iron grip slowly unclenched his heart.

Eventually, the tears subsided. Crowley’s panicked breathing calmed, and he took multiple slow, deep breaths, focusing intently on how wet he’d gotten Aziraphale’s jacket and vest. He quietly miracled it away, flooding with shame, Perhaps the angel was comforting him out of pity, nothing more. He’d ruined his only chance.

And he knew he looked terrible, with reddened eyes and his cheeks glistening with salty tears. But he needed to see it in Aziraphale’s eyes, and he looked up.

He had only a fraction of a second to register the expression, the soft smile, the thin tear tracks trailing symmetrically over the curves of Aziraphale’s face. With a snap, the angel summoned a handkerchief into his hand and, reaching out as gently as he might handle his most valuable, most rare, most treasured books, he dabbed away Crowley’s tears from under his eyes, his cheeks, his chin, his nose.

Crowley let him, paralyzed and choking.

When his face was dried, Aziraphale looked at him with all the love the Heavens could not contain, etched into each line, each curve. Crowley dared not move, dared not break the spell. It was directed at him, and he knew it was, and all doubt fled him.

Aziraphale’s lips just hardly brushed Crowley’s forehead as he whispered, just loud enough so those impolite stars might hear if they listened carefully, “For your patience.”

Crowley’s brain short-circuited and struggled fruitlessly to recompute. 

Aziraphale kissed between his demonic eyes, ever mild, ever slow. “Your heart. And mostly for…” 

But Aziraphale’s words gave out then, too overcome with emotion to say anything else.

Crowley let himself smile, slightly, feeling the rush of heat that filled his face grow stronger. “I know, angel.” Aziraphale didn’t need to say it, either. Maybe these things were not meant to find words, and that was okay.

Aziraphale’s kiss was not like Crowley’s. It was not the kiss of an angel, the silky caress of a wing that guarded you against the rainfall. This one was passionate and deep, roaring and alive, something unquenched, unsatiated, something not well understood and beyond the grasp of mortals. There was joy. There was relief. 

But, like Crowley’s, there was love, more than anything else.


	5. Aziraphale

The next time they pulled apart – which, admittedly, took rather longer than the first time – Crowley’s gaze seemed to find something over Aziraphale’s shoulder to be of particular and extreme interest. Aziraphale beamed at his shy demon and unabashedly stared into Crowley’s beautiful, sunset eyes. He was already bleeding out, their faces deeply colored, and Aziraphale found himself wishing desperately, recklessly, that this moment would become a tattoo on his flesh, a permanent mark so that anyone who saw him would know how deeply he could love, that they would understand at a glance that six-thousand years had culminated and shattered in an evening, and that it was exactly as it should be. 

Nothing could stop him, not even ineffability. He is free to love, and he does.

And I love the demon I hold, he thought, I love-

“Angel?” The voice was low, nearly indistinct but for its proximity.

“Demon.” He couldn’t help but let a sly smile tuck on the corners of his mouth.

“Can I…can we…?” The question faltered on Crowley’s tongue and barely managed to spill out. “I know you don’t really like to sleep.”

Aziraphale’s heart swelled with fondness. “Maybe I need a guide.”

Crowley’s horrified expression, as red as the forbidden fruit ever could have been and mouth opening and closing like a fish, left Aziraphale unable to contain his laughter, and he bent to rest his forehead on Crowley’s tense shoulder as the chuckles rippled through him. Crowley still seemed in shock but was relaxing into Aziraphale’s temple with his ear, and Aziraphale felt that slight tingle of the demonic snake tattoo against his bare skin.

A wave of sleepiness crashed over Aziraphale, which was new, but he decided not to fight it. He lifted his face to see Crowley’s, and to look at his eyes, still a swirling cloud of autumnals. “Let’s find a place to lie down.”

Strictly speaking, as ethereal and occult beings – respectively – Aziraphale and Crowley didn’t need sleep. Even when a rare moment arose that made them feel inexplicably human in their needs, it could be miracled away in an instant. It was like eating, or breathing; unnecessary, but something that was there as an option. Sleep was to Crowley as food was to him, Aziraphale knew, and Crowley was always so kind to indulge him (not that he’d ever say the word “kind” to Crowley, of course). He wanted to return the favor.

The emotional exhaustion of the past couple hours consumed Crowley visibly, even down to his lack of swagger as Aziraphale guided him to the large bed that had miraculously appeared in a miraculously expanded closet that was miraculously the perfect size.

Crowley seemed to take it in, or at least try, but he shook his head as though he just wasn’t able to process anything else. Aziraphale bit back a laugh and smiled affectionately as Crowley absentmindedly snapped and appeared in black pajamas without really noticing that he’d done so for Aziraphale as well – and they were tartan.

The covers were warm, and the room was quiet, but the company was the best. The two laid side by side, knuckles brushing against one another, and they drifted into a quiet, silken word. Aziraphale breathed in deep as he felt Crowley’s trembling soul ease into rest, and he kissed the wily demon’s tattoo, almost savoring the tingling sensation it left on his lips.

There was no need for dreams.


	6. Chapter 6

Neither of them could say exactly when or how it happened, but by the time morning light was filtering in through the dusty panes, their arms were wrapped around each other, blankets be damned. Crowley’s legs were snaked around Aziraphale’s like a possessive python, and Crowley blinked awake to a soft beige tartan pressing red creases into his face.

He stirred, registering where he was but not daring to move more than his eyelids, savoring it as a dream in case it was. But even half-awake, he knew this was real, and for a fleeting moment, he wasn’t embarrassed. This felt right.

“Good morning, dear.”

Crowley lifted his head from Aziraphale’s chest and let his eyes rest on the tumultuous blue sea. The embarrassment came back in a deafening crash. What language was he supposed to reply in, again? “Hi, angel.”

He wanted nothing more than to fill that gap again, that separated their lips just so. It was begging to no longer be so empty. But somehow, the yellow dawn lighting left him without the courage – despite literally being wrapped around each other. Morning kisses were something else entirely they’d need to explore later.

Crowley almost reprimanded himself for the errant, hopeful thought, a thought of the future, but reeled it back in. He’d allow himself the one, just for now.

Aziraphale, with a sigh that tasted of regret, untangled himself from Crowley and stood, adjusting his ruffled clothing. “How do you feel about breakfast, love? I’m famished.”

Crowley grinned, that mischievous glimmer sparkling in his eye. “You know how I feel about breakfast, angel.”

“Do you suppose you can be persuaded?” Aziraphale tempted.

“Try me,” Crowley drawled as he managed to pull himself from the lingering warmth of sleep. Aziraphale’s chuckle was everything.

He felt suddenly that he had been patient for something, patient for a long time, for this. Somehow, it wasn’t the kisses or the soft touches. It’s wasn’t about the contact at all, not between skin, but the abrasion between feeling, the friction of shared thoughts. It was the eyes, the domestic simplicity. As a demon, he had thought love was supposed to be carnal, hungry, physically eager and never satisfied.

He didn’t feel that way, but it was still love.

He agreed to breakfast – obviously – and was in the back of the bookshop searching for his sunglasses when Aziraphale joined him, freshly suited in unwrinkled layers. Crowley had simply miracled his back, but Aziraphale would always be old fashioned to the details.

Aziraphale looked at him oddly, a hover of bewilderment flashing in his eyes. “Did you always have freckles, Crowley? I would’ve noticed if you had freckles.”

At this opportune moment, Crowley found his sunglasses and shoved them on quickly, mumbling something.

Crowley knew why he had freckles.

“Let’s go, angel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Freckles are called angel’s kisses btw…)
> 
> No, seriously. Go read Sonnet 29 and just try to convince me Crowley didn’t write that. You can’t. Because he absolutely did, okay?  
> Here is a collection of others he most certainly wrote if you want to look them up and be further convinced of the bending of reality:
> 
> Sonnet 121 (excerpt):  
> ’Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed  
> When not to be receives reproach of being,  
> And the just pleasure lost, which is so deemed  
> Not by our feeling but by others' seeing.
> 
> Sonnet 125 (excerpt):  
> No, let me be obsequious in thy heart,  
> And take thou oblation, poor but free,  
> Which is not mixed with seconds, knows no art,  
> But mutual render, only me for thee.
> 
> Sonnet 126 (excerpt):  
> Oh thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power  
> Dost hold Time’s fickle glass, his sickle hour;  
> Who hast by waning grown, and therein showest  
> Thy lovers withering, as thy sweet self growest.
> 
> Sonnet 142 (excerpt):   
> Be it lawful I love thee as thou lov’st those  
> Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee:  
> Root pity in thy heart, that, when it grows,  
> Thy pity may deserve to pitied be.
> 
> And of course, let us not forget that Aziraphale, too, had a penchant for a similar hobby.  
> Sonnet 55 (excerpt):  
> ‘Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity  
> Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room  
> Even in the eyes of all posterity  
> That wear this world out of the ending doom.  
> So, til the Judgement that yourself arise,  
> You live in this, and dwell in lovers’ eyes.
> 
> Mostly, I hope you enjoyed this, as it was some of the most fun that I’ve had while writing. I hope it wasn’t too much or too little to satisfy whatever you clicked on this for. It’s only my second piece I’ve published online, so I’m still figuring this out. Leave a comment if you’re willing, and thanks for reading!


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